


It Happened One Night

by thefudge



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing a Bed, Unspoken Crush, adventures in Veronica's speakeasy, untold feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-15 20:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Takes place during the summer before S3. With Hiram out for blood, Archie in custody, and Betty in New York, Veronica and Jughead make for strange bedfellows. Literally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I mentioned on Tumblr that I wanted to write a oneshot revolving around the speakeasy and Jeronica bonding over the summer, and well, here is that oneshot. Enjoy!
> 
> (the title is a reference to the classic 1930s movie by the same name and hey, Prohibition ended in 1933 so I can get away with it)

 

***

 

Jughead never thought he’d go to _Pop’s_ for anything but a burger and shake. Yet here he was on a hot July evening, climbing down the stairs to the moldy basement. 

The raven-haired proprietor opened a slit in the metal door and stared at him critically.

“Password.”

“ _Really_ , Veronica?”

“That’s not the password, big guy.”

Jughead heaved a harried sigh. “I forgot the password.”

“That’s not it either.”

“Sea clams,” he caved in, disgruntled. “Which, by the way, is redundant.”

“I’ll be the boss of that.” And she slid the lock open.

Jughead was instantly assaulted by a range of pungent smells and brass notes drifting from below. In front of him was a short catwalk to another flight of stairs leading into the “Den of Sin”, as Veronica liked to dramatize it. 

“You know, there’s a dress code in place,” she told him while they made their way through the dark. “You can’t just show up at the speakeasy looking like a Nirvana reject.”

“Oh, gosh, will the people think I’m a time traveler?” Jughead mocked, patting his flannel shirt. 

 “Go home and change.”

“Do you greet all your patrons this way?”

She pushed him down the stairs. “Only the time travelers.”

 

 

Veronica had gone all out on the décor. The inside looked as if Baz Luhrmann had vomited all over the place. Not that that was a bad thing, but he’d never seen so much glitter in his life.

She flashed a million-watt smile as she twirled around in her period-appropriate flapper dress, complete with frills and elbow-length gloves.  She’d pinned her locks at the base of her nape and gelled her hair to look like Josephine Baker.

“You like?”

“It’s…something,” he muttered without elaborating. He wasn’t comfortable appraising her looks. She must’ve known she was beautiful anyway. She certainly belonged in the Jazz Age with all its gluttony for style and devil-may-care _joie de vivre._

“Can I interest you in a gimlet? A mint julep? How about a South Side on the rocks, no pun intended?”

 “Isn’t it illegal to serve alcohol to minors? Even in the 1920s?” he quipped as he took a seat at one of the dramatically lit hutches which adorned the garish speakeasy.

 “They had to cope with the Big Depression, so alcohol was practically their lunch and dinner,” she replied unfazed, setting down a gilt-framed menu in cursive lettering.

Jughead raised both eyebrows. “This took a dark turn.”

“I’m in a chipper mood,” she flashed her teeth again. “And if you insist on being a baby, I can interest you in some Virgin cocktails on the house.”

Jughead leaned forward and caught a glance of his dad mixing drinks at the bar. “You mean on my dad’s credit.”

“Potato, potahto.”

 “Fine. Can the maître d’ sit down and have a Virgin cocktail with me then?” he gestured to the seat in front of him.

“Can’t do,” Veronica shrugged. “Place is packed with boozehounds. Gotta get the cabbage while it’s fresh.”

Jughead snorted. “Ease up on the slang, Zeta.”

“I’ll swing by when you’re ready to order,” she winked again and dashed like a woodland sprite to the other cubicles.  

She didn’t have to serve tables; she was the owner after all. But she enjoyed playing a role, putting on a costume. At least that’s what she claimed.

Jughead rested his chin in the palm of his hand. It wasn’t a total lie. Veronica Lodge liked disappearing into a clever disguise. It was easier than facing reality. And reality was grim, to put it mildly.

Archie was currently on probation for murder and he didn’t want to make his case worse by talking to anyone except his lawyer. Betty was doing an internship at a law firm in New York and she could only offer her sympathy over the phone. Hiram Lodge was threatening to shut down the speakeasy and Mayor Hermione was making it her mission to slowly and effectively disband the Serpents. Oh, and the Ghoulies were still around, terrorizing his neighborhood.

Jughead wished he could have a South Side on the rocks right about now.

At least his dad was still keeping up his clean act. FP waved from the bar, sporting a tacky Panama hat. Jughead would mock him later for that one. Trouble was, his dad refused to get involved in turf wars anymore and his son couldn’t do it on his own. He was beginning to regret being made King.

It was only July and this was gearing up to be one long, depressing summer. He’d come down to the speakeasy more out of camaraderie. Whether he liked it or not, Veronica was his fellow sufferer. Except he wished he could bottle up his teen angst as well as she did.

There she was again, whizzing past him cheerily with a tray full of steaming Tequilas.

_Fuck it._

He intercepted her mid-step and grabbed two shots off the tray.

“Bottoms up.” He handed one to Veronica. The dark-haired girl paused only for a moment before taking it and draining it in one gulp. Jughead did the same. They both grinned emptily at each other.

“Two more?” he asked, already swaying on his feet. His dad was right there, but maybe he wouldn’t fault him for trying to get knocked out for one night.

“Lunch and dinner,” she quipped, raising her glass. 

 

 

The band was playing Louis Prima by way of Benny Goodman. It wasn’t exactly 1920s jazz, but it would do. Hell, the dancers didn’t seem to care. They’d been born in an age where VHS tapes were already an antiquity. Perhaps that made them the ideal Swingers. Born innocent and dumb in a world full of despair.

Veronica’s skin shone blue in the darkly lit basement. One of her gloves had come off in the commotion. Jughead was trying to take off the other one. He’d never been much of a dancer, but four shots later he had his hand around her waist and was trying to do the twisted steps to a Charleston.

Failing miserably, but still, that was half the fun.

The two bumped knees and elbows and laughed and spun together while the night grew more effervescent around them.

“Hey, guess what?” Veronica shouted in his ear during a lull in the music.

“What?” Sweat shone like fairy dust on his forehead.

“Archie said he doesn’t want me to come see him anymore! Isn’t that fantastic?”

Jughead laughed meanly. He was too drunk for this conversation. “Yeah, he, uh, he told me he can’t be associated with you right now.”

“Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to associate with myself either,” and she giggled raucously, as if she had said a very clever thing.

Jughead saw small tears glittering in the corner of her eyes. He wanted to wipe them away, but when he raised his hand all he did was smear her cheek with sweat.

He cleared his throat. “When I called Betty yesterday, some lawyer-type dude answered the phone. Told me _she’s busy right now_. Can you believe that guy?”

Veronica scoffed. “What a cad.”

“He also said she has a full plate this week and can’t take too many _personal calls_. Like that’s a thing.”

 “He’s probably embezzling the company,” she sneered. “He’s the worst. I haaaate him.”

“Me too. I hope Betty doesn’t like him.”

The ex-heiress tugged on his arm. She slurred her words drunkenly. “How can she like hiiiim….when you’re a caaaatch.”

Jughead didn’t feel like a catch at the moment. He’d never felt like one, actually. _Lucky_ , maybe. Lucky that a girl like Betty had ever looked at him twice.

“ _Caaatch_ ,” Veronica kept saying, clinging to him like he was the raft in Titanic, and it took him a second to realize she was slipping away.

He caught her just in time before her legs collapsed under her. She was heavy in his arms. He wasn’t sober enough to raise her up.

They both crumbled to the floor, unable to disentangle their limbs.

It was not their best hour.

Veronica was crying in earnest now, and Jughead wasn’t far behind.

They held their arms around each other and didn’t let go until FP collected them from the floor.

“Jesus Christ, you kids look like shit.”

 

 

When Hiram had kicked Veronica out of Pembrooke, he thought his daughter would crawl back in shame the very next day. His spoiled little princess had never lived in a house without her own private bathroom and boudoir. But people can surprise you. After all, she’d inherited his dangerous willfulness. At first she rented rooms at the Shady Palm Motel, but when her limited budget couldn’t cover that anymore, she took to sleeping in the attic at Pop’s. I mean, she owned the place, didn’t she?

Alice Cooper had offered Betty’s room for the duration of the summer. Kevin also proposed she share his bedroom. After all, his dad couldn’t disapprove on grounds of propriety.

But Veronica didn’t want to be anyone’s charity case. She wanted to prove to herself and everyone around her that being stripped of her essentials was not going to affect her in the long run. She would bounce back. She was tough as nails. Titanium, baby.

FP sighed as he carried the teenage girl who was technically his employer to his car. He deposited her body next to his sleeping son’s.

“Not so tough now, are you?” he muttered under his breath.

He’d come to be fond of his underage boss and he wasn’t going to let her sleep in the attic tonight.

 

 

“Jellybean,” Jughead muttered drunkenly, nuzzling Veronica’s gelled hair.

“Close enough, buddy,” FP laughed, drawing the blanket over their bodies. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they shared a bed for one night. He was going to take the couch. And tomorrow, maybe he’d make breakfast. And maybe he’d tell Veronica she could stay over any time she needed. She wouldn’t accept his offer, but he’d try anyway. Jughead had told him she might need a new father figure. He laughed again to think it could be him.

 

 

Hang on, Jellybean doesn’t smell of Chanel.

Jughead lifted his head from the pillow. His eyes adjusted slowly to the uneven darkness. There was a body pressed up against him, both familiar and new.

Veronica whimpered something in her sleep and rubbed her toes against his ankles. Her feet were cold. He realized he still had his arm around her waist, as if they were still dancing. Her proximity was a little surreal. His bare arm was touching her bare arm. His dad had stripped him down to his wife beater. She looked so vulnerable in her flapper dress. There were tear tracks on her cheeks and her mascara had been smudged. She was far from the unflappable Manhattan socialite he’d been introduced to at the beginning, but she was also irreducibly herself. The undefeated, indefatigable Veronica.

There was a point in time when he didn’t use to like her.

Now, he wasn’t put off to find himself sleeping next to her. It was almost comforting. Betty wouldn’t object. She’d know it was innocent. Or maybe she wouldn’t care, seeing as she was so busy with her lawyer friends in New York.

Jughead shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. It was the hangover talking.

No, Betty trusted him – that was it.

Anyway, he’d decided a long time ago that Veronica Lodge wasn’t his type. It’d be like mixing tooth paste and orange juice, religion and government, cocaine and baby formula. Okay, maybe he was rambling. In any case, she didn’t belong in his world, even if she was temporarily living in it.

It was only an error, a glitch in the system. And because this was a glitch, he could indulge in the weirdness for a moment longer.  

Veronica breathed deeply next to him and he felt safe enough to speak.

“I'm sorry this is happening to you. You don't deserve any of it." A shaky start. He could do better.

"Archie will come around, you’ll see," he continued softly. "And if he doesn’t, he’s an idiot. It’s not your fault Hiram is out for blood. It’ll be okay in the end. It has to be.”

Did he truly believe it? Ask him in the morning.

He parted her stiff hair from her face. This was the only time he could tell her this. He was too proud and _she_ was even prouder. He inhaled sharply.  “You didn’t _have_ to buy _Pop’s_. You didn’t have to give up your trust fund. You didn’t have to do …all of this. But you did it anyway. And I know you didn't do it for _me_ , but I never thanked you.”

Veronica stirred lightly in her sleep, but her eyes remained shuttered.

“So…thank you.”

He bent down and kissed her cheek. It tasted like glitter and mint julep. He remembered kissing her lips too. That had been misguided. And yet _this_ was somehow more intimate.

He turned on his side and stared up at the ceiling. Life was weird. His stomach was doing little flip-flops. Maybe he needed to throw up. Maybe he just needed to close his eyes.

Veronica opened her eyes next to him and smiled.

 

 

“Morning, Boss.”

Veronica blinked. Someone had drawn the blinds. The sun was wreaking havoc on her eyelids.

“Do I look like a raccoon?” she asked, raising herself on her elbows.

FP dropped the breakfast tray in her lap. On it was a Pop Tart, a glass of water and two aspirins.

“First you gotta take care of your headache.”

“What headache?”

“Oh, it’ll hit ya in a moment.”

And it did. Like clockwork. The pain started in the back of her head. Veronica groaned and rubbed her temples.

“Where’s Jughead?”

“Bathroom. He’s got his head under the tap. Boy can’t hold his liquor.”

“We got pretty wasted last night, huh?”

“I’ll say. You two are weepy drunks.”

Veronica laughed and swallowed down the pills. She’d had far worse mornings. Like when Hiram barged into her bedroom and told her to pack up.

“Thanks for…” she trailed off vaguely.

“Making you sleep in an actual bed?” FP quipped. “My pleasure.”

Veronica squinted at him. “Are we sure this is an _actual_ bed?”

FP grinned. “Oh, good, you’re back to sassing me. I was almost worried.”

Jughead’s head suddenly popped in the doorway. His hair was drenched and water was running down his back, making indents in his clean shirt. It wasn’t a bad look. If only he wore it like that more often….Veronica quickly folded the thought aside.

He was perusing his phone.  

“Uh, I think we made an impression last night.”

“I should hope so,” Veronica replied. “I put a lot of effort in my Josephine costume.”

“Um, that’s not exactly what I mean.” He came round to her side of the bed and held the screen up.

FP was right. They really _were_ weepy drunks. Josie and her friends had posted a bunch of incriminating photos. In at least four of them, Veronica and Jughead were sprawled on the floor, laughing and crying while trying, ineffectually, to put their arms around each other.

“Oh God, we’re pathetic.”

Jughead shrugged. “At least they’re not talking about your dad or Archie. We’re a convenient distraction.”

Veronica stared up into his eyes. _A convenient distraction._ That sounded about right.

FP cleared his throat. “Listen, if anyone wants to take a shower, they should do it now, cuz there’s not much hot water left.”

“Thanks for the hint,” Veronica mumbled, untangling the sheets around her legs. Her flapper dress had fallen off her shoulder. Jughead righted the strap. His fingers felt cold against her skin.

“You snore, by the way,” Veronica told him as she moved past him.

Jughead called after her, “you’ve got no proof.”

She smiled all the way into the shower.

 

 

Veronica Lodge, _the_ Veronica Lodge, was wearing a pair of shorts and one of his plaid shirts. Jughead felt a mixture of horror and amusement. He knew the image would be seared into his brain forever. Of course, she looked…effortlessly pretty in it and he had no one to blame for it.

They sat down on the couch, each with a bowl of cereals.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance before.”

Jughead scoffed. He felt himself blush. “If you call that dancing.”

“We need to get plastered more often,” she mused.

“Maybe not every night, though,” he amended.

“Have you got anything better to do?” she asked, and the way she was looking at him, he knew what she was thinking.

Their significant others were currently unavailable, their family situation was a mess, she had become a social pariah overnight and he was…well, he’d always been one. Getting plastered in a basement every night was the only thing to do.

Veronica fished out one of his paperbacks from under the couch.  It was, funnily enough, _Tender Is the Night_.

“Fitzgerald.” She raised it victoriously in the air. “It’s a sign from the gods that we have to debauch ourselves again tonight. After all,” she quoted somberly, “new friends can often have a better time together than old friends.”

Jughead grabbed the paperback from her hand. “Settle down, Zelda.”

He had a different quote in mind. He’d never tell her, though. He wouldn’t even tell himself. It’d only be a whisper in the back of his mind, a place where he stashed the image of her in his clothes, in his trailer, eating his cereals.

_Actually that’s my secret — I can’t even talk about you to anybody because I don’t want any more people to know how wonderful you are._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to continue this, but yall have been so lovely here and on Tumblr and I just couldn't resist <33

“Ugh.” Veronica wrinkled her nose in distate. “I hate this musical number.”

Jughead lifted his head from the couch. He didn’t think he’d heard her right.

“You said _My Fair Lady_ was your favorite movie. That’s why we are currently watching it, remember?”

“I recall what I said and I still hate this song. More so because it tarnishes an otherwise wonderful piece of cinema.”

Jughead stared at the screen. Audrey Hepburn was singing her heart out about the dance she had just attended. He didn’t see anything wrong with that.

Veronica sang along in mock-contralto. “I could’ve daaanced all niiiight. I could’ve daaanced all niiight. _Ugh_. It’s so shrill and unnecessary.”

“When you sing it, yeah.”

She kicked him in the leg. “I’m a great singer and you know it.”

“I’m just messing with you.” Jughead leaned over in an attempt to grab the popcorn bowl. “So you have a problem with the melody?”

“And the lyrics and the sentiment behind it,” she rolled her eyes. “I hate it when Eliza waxes poetry about the Professor.”

“She’s not talking about him exactly.”

“Yes, she is. She’s singing about how her whole _life_ started when he danced with her.”  

Veronica knocked his hand away from the popcorn bowl. She’d made two bowls and he’d already eaten his and she was not about to “slave away” – as she called it –in his tiny kitchen again.

“Sharing is caring, Veronica.”

“Then call me cold-hearted,” she said, moving the bowl away from his reach.

“This is technically my trailer.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m one lease away from buying you out. I happen to be a skilled entrepreneur,” she reminded him with a superior smile.

Jughead lunged forward and snatched the bowl from her hand.

“Thief!” Veronica gasped.

“Guess your entrepreneurial skills couldn’t stop me there. Going back to your weird hang-up about this one song…” Jughead trailed off , filling up his mouth with popcorn. “You do realize this movie’s ultimate goal is to resolve their differences and bring them together, class differences notwithstanding? That is the original rom-com formula.”

 “ _Pygmalion_ is not a simple rom-com,” Veronica protested. “This is a betrayal of their dynamic.”

“Oh, come on. A rom-com can still be high-brow and indulge in the saccharine. You’re being a little harsh.”

“I’m not talking about _that_. You don’t get it. Eliza and Higgins are supposed to act like two bickering old marrieds. That’s their dynamic. It’s understated and unsentimental. They’re never quite open with their feelings, but you know the affection is there, underneath it all.”

“Hmm.  What about _I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face_? Higgins sings that at the end, doesn’t he?”

“See, _that_ one is understated and subtle. Meanwhile, _I Could’ve Danced All Night_ is the Edwardian version of Eliza throwing her bloomers at Higgins.”

“Bloomers?” Jughead sniggered.

“ _You_ find a better word. Anyway, I can’t stand effusions of passion.” And with that, she repossessed the stolen popcorn bowl.

Jughead pondered her comment in silence. He didn’t know what to say to that. It felt like more than a matter of taste. If Veronica was being honest about this, then he wondered why she didn’t mind Archie’s very open adulations. His friend had never been restrained about is feelings. Well, not that he was very forthcoming these days.

He stared at Veronica’s sharp profile. In the past two weeks, he had been introduced to sides of her that he wasn’t comfortable assessing, especially in the wake of her new situation. They had been left alone for the summer which meant that they invariably ended up commiserating together, but her one night spent in his trailer had turned into a semi-regular habit. Not that – _God_ – they'd slept in the same bed again.

No. It’s just that they’d developed a routine. Veronica would stop by the trailer to grab lunch with him and his dad and watch a movie or two. And then she and FP would head off to the speakeasy for the night where Jughead would sometimes join them with his laptop. Sometimes FP wasn’t around, like today, and they’d find themselves alone, arguing about pop culture instead of dealing with their issues.

He didn’t know how long this would last and he didn’t know if they’d ever get to a point where they could talk openly about their personal problems. Last time they’d done that, they’d been highly intoxicated.

Their newfound friendship felt temporary at best.

So he deflected.

“Huh. Then you’re going to hate _27 Dresses”._

Veronica threw him a dark look.

“What? It’s a Heigl classic,” Jughead teased. “And my choice for the next movie session.”

“I hope for your sake that you’re joking.”

He _was_ joking, but now that he thought about it, why not? He kind of enjoyed goading her. He liked the look of irritation that crossed her face every time he tried it. It definitely beat the look of sadness that sometimes shrouded her features like a veil.

Cold comfort this was.

 

 

_…tonight, I set my scene in a simulacrum of the past, a phantom town which has replaced Riverdale entirely. We are stationed underground, in the bowels of the earth, and anything is possible. The hostess leads you down the stairs in the guise of Hades, but she is also Perspehone, queen of this wild, colorful version of purgatory._

Jughead scratched at his forehead. The whole thing sounded like flowery tripe. He hit backspace. The speakeasy was more crowded than ever, but it wasn’t the noise that was distracting him. He switched tabs and stared at the email he’d started to write Betty but had never finished.

_Dear Betty,_

_Summer drags on. I miss you._

Not very eloquent stuff, but he’d been agonizing on these two lines for hours. Betty had sent him a two-page email about all the exciting things she was learning and seeing in New York. She was spending almost every afternoon at the MoMA, _hurray_ , and she’d taken a trip to Brooklyn to see Truman Capote’s old manse in Willow Street. She was going to send pictures, _promise!_  She hoped things were going well with Archie’s trial, though she was sure he’d be let off since he had done nothing wrong and she was actually consulting on the case with _Brett_ at the firm. Jughead had a vague suspicion that Brett was the individual who’d answered Betty’s phone.

He set his fingers on the keyboard.

_Summer drags on. I miss you. Maybe I’ll take the bus and come into town and see you –_

He deleted the last few words and heaved a sigh.

A tall glass scraped against the table. The liquid inside it was suspiciously blue.

Veronica plopped down opposite him.

“Of course, one of my stockings snagged and ripped at the seams,” she said by way of hello.

Jughead pushed down the laptop lid and snuck a look under the table. Veronica showed him the back of her calf where the fabric had torn. The exposed flesh looked oddly vulnerable.

“Ouch.”

“They were my last good pair too. I’m cursed with bad luck.”

“Maybe not. I might have a spare pair in my backpack. Let me check.”

Veronica raised her dainty middle finger at him.

Jughead laughed. “It’s just a small tear, Veronica. No one will notice.”

“ _I_ ’ll notice. Ugh, I’ll probably have to stitch them tomorrow.”

“ _You_ can stitch?”

 “A lady must always be prepared for fashion emergencies,” she drawled.

“Duly noted. What is this blue thing anyway?” He pointed to the glass.

Veronica grinned. “I made it.”

“Right. That doesn’t make me feel any more inclined to drink it.”

“You’re lucky I ripped my stockings and can’t challenge you to a duel. For your information, your dad helped me make it but it’s my own invention. I call it _Veronica Blues_. It’s coconut liqueur, blue punch, grape juice, and a secret ingredient.”

“Do I want to know the secret ingredient?”

“Nope. Drink up.”

Jughead reached for the glass with a rueful smile. “I don’t enjoy being your guinea pig.”

“And I don’t enjoy the fact that you’re still dressed like Winona Ryder. Would it _kill_ you to put on a shirt and jacket? This locale has a theme.”

Jughead sipped from the glass. _Veronica Blues_ tasted sticky sweet and bitter at the same time. That felt about right.

“The band is currently playing a string quartet rendition of _Turn Down For What_.”

Veronica smiled. “Clever, right?”

He rolled his eyes fondly. It _was_ kind of clever.

“How’s your writing going?” she asked.

“It’s going great…” he deadpanned. “I’m ready to fight Norman Mailer in the ring.”

“You can do better than that old hack. Anyway, maybe _Veronica Blues_ will give you inspiration,” she said and she bent down, working at something under the table. Jughead heard a soft rip.

He looked down, eyebrows raised. Veronica had torn her other stocking too.

“I mean, at least they match now.”

She got up with the confidence of royalty and strutted away from his table.

Jughead had to admire her ingenuity, if nothing else.

He returned to his email. This is what he wrote.

_Dear Betty,_

_Summer drags on. I miss you. Veronica tore both her stockings._

_Jughead._

He sent it before he knew what he was doing.

 

 

Okay, maybe he was hoping Betty would write back immediately, wondering why and how he knew about Veronica’s stockings. It was childish and stupid and he blamed it on _Veronica Blues._

Betty didn’t email back.

 

 

The next day, she was sat on the edge of his bed with the stockings in her lap. She was actually stitching them. Jughead leaned against the door frame.

“Color me impressed.”

“How about you go make me some coffee? My head is splitting,” she muttered with a needle in her mouth.

“So bossy,” he said under his breath but nevertheless complied.

He found his dad in the kitchen.

“How’s she doing?”

“Being her normal entitled self,” Jughead shrugged, taking out the coffee pot.

“You know Hermione came to see me. Asked if her daughter needs anything. What should I even tell her?”

Jughead tensed his shoulders. “Tell her to get a pair of stockings.”

 

 

She did her accounting in the Jones’ kitchen. She added up the month’s profit from _Pop’s_ and watched it melt away as most of it went to paying the speakeasy’s renovation bills. She’d also have to let go of the cleaning lady.

FP cleared his throat. “I can go without pay this month.”

Veronica bristled. “You are getting paid.”

“I don’t mind. I can get by with other jobs.”

“You’re not volunteering at a soup kitchen. This is a legitimate workplace.”

 “I know that. And I’ll still show up. Don’t worry about me, kid.”

“Of course I worry,” she snapped. “It’s my job to worry.”

“No. It’s not.”

Veronica’s lower lip trembled. She wanted to focus on the anger, not the sadness. “My dad is buying up the whole town. Soon there’ll be nothing left for any of us.”

FP came round the table and placed a callused hand on her shoulder.

“He hasn’t won yet. And he won’t, if we have anything to say about it.”

“You don’t know him like I do.”

“I think he’s the one who doesn’t know you,” FP said, his voice low and serious, and something about his words made her want to put her head down and cry. But she was getting really tired of her own varying emotions. Would it be weird if she hugged him right now?

She heard Jughead’s footsteps in the hallway. He’d come back from _Pop’s_ with dinner.

He stared at his dad and Veronica.

“Um, did someone die?”

“Nah, come here,” FP waved at him. Jughead left the takeout on the table.

“What’s happening, what are we doing?”

FP grabbed his son by the shoulders and pulled him into a half embrace.

“You too, Lodge, come on,” FP muttered and hauled Veronica from her chair.

They made an awkward sandwich, all three of them, with their heads together. Veronica leaned her cheek on Jughead’s shoulder. FP’s chin was in her hair. She felt their arms around her and it was the least lonely she had felt all month.

 

 

“So, your dad is secretly a softie.”

Jughead made a face. “Don’t call him that if you want to keep coming over.”

They were watching _27 Dresses_.  As promised. Katherine Heigl was currently in a screaming match with her sister who was marrying the guy she secretly liked. It was all very dramatic and meaningless, and she wished she could live that life instead of this one.

Well, this wasn’t too bad. Jughead had made the popcorn this time around.

“I wish my dad was like that,” she muttered absently, stroking the couch’s arm. “You’re lucky.”

Jughead shook his head. “It’s weird that he’s no longer the fuck-up in the equation. I guess I’m proud of him.”

“You should be.”

He stared at her. “You know, despite everything that’s happened, your dad still loves y-”

“Don’t.”

“…okay.”

But he could see the veil of sadness coming down over her features, shutting down all communications. Jughead didn’t like to see her sad. He really didn’t. Happy Veronica was already a handful. But a melancholy Veronica he couldn’t take.

He started humming softly under his breath.

Veronica shushed him and turned up the volume. Jughead hummed louder.

A few moments later, she realized what he was singing.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I could’ve daaaanced all night, I could’ve daaanced all night,” Jughead sang off-key. “And still have begged for mooore…”

“You are a dead man,” she said, grabbing the pillow behind her and throwing it in his face.

“I could have spreaaad my wiiiings,” he continued, getting up from the couch. “And done a thooousand thiiiings…”

Veronica chased him through the trailer.

“Stop it! This isn’t funny!”

She was laughing, despite herself.

“I only knew when he began to dance with meeee,” he belted out, screwing up his face in faux-infatuation.

Veronica couldn’t breathe for laughing. She kept hitting him with the pillow, but it didn't make him stop.

A few light feathers floated in the air between them. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and onward we go! these two kids, i tell ya, they bring out A LOT in me.

“God. These stupid things are a conspiracy against women.” Veronica stomped in front of him, clutching her sequin dress to her chest. 

“What are?” he asked, putting down his book with a jolt.

“Zippers,” she clarified moodily and turned her back to him. “Could you please help me out?”

Jughead held his breath for a tiny second. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her skin was smooth and bare and there was a constellation of freckles between her shoulder blades. The filament of her spine traveled straight and then tapered off where her dimples met her lower back.

He shook his head, annoyed at his own wordy reaction. He’d been reading too much Edith Wharton. And Veronica had been crashing here for too long.

But he’d seen her half-naked before in that ill-fated Jacuzzi. This was no different.

He got up and fumbled with the zipper. The blasted thing was lost amidst a sea of gauze and sequins. His fingers accidentally skimmed the back of her spine.

Veronica shivered a little.

“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath, which only made the moment weirder.

“Just hurry up.”

“Trying.”

He managed to slide it halfway up before it jammed. _Shit_.

“Did you break it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“No. Hold still.”

He pulled on the zipper, sliding it back and forth. He stuck his finger inside the tape and tried to see if there was any fabric locked in it. He was touching her bare back again. It couldn’t be helped.

“Don’t make me go to your dad for this,” she gritted her teeth.

The image of a bra-less Veronica asking his dad to zip her up made him feel queasy. And weirdly angry.  Because his dad could probably get it done in half a second. FP had a way with things.

Jughead was determined to get it right. He yanked hard once, twice and –

Oh. Oh no.

“So…don’t kill me. Even though I probably deserve it.”

“What did you _do_?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed. I mean you can stitch, right?”

Veronica whipped around red in the face. He couldn’t tell if she’d been blushing or if she was just furious. Probably the latter.

“I gave you one job, Forsythe. One job.”

Jughead started apologizing ineffectually but she was already stomping away, broken zipper dangling sadly at her back.

He didn’t turn away in time and, as she made a dash for his room, she also pulled the dress over her head angrily.

He got a flash – like one of those subliminal images from _Fight Club_.

But it was a really bad, no good, terrible kind of flash.

Jughead blinked again and again. It wouldn’t go away. In fact, it kept replaying in slow motion on his retina.

He scrambled out of the trailer for some fresh air.

He called Betty, not expecting her to answer, almost not wanting her to. He knew he’d sound all weird and wound up and he was a terrible liar, so if she asked him why he was so flustered – was flustered even the right word?

“Hey, Jug. I was gonna call you tomorrow. Is everything okay?”

Shit, she actually answered.

“He-ey,” he said, a little too excited. “Everything is good. I mean relatively good. As good as it can be given that we live in this sham of a town. None of my kidneys are missing, at least.”

“You sound …cranky.”

“I’m fine, I’m just – you know, not great with the small talk. Did you read my email?”

“Yeah, I thought it was funny. Very Dorothy Parker. I think? Was that what you were going for?”

Oh, okay. So he’d been trying to get an admittedly childish reaction out of her by mentioning Veronica’s stockings and Betty had interpreted it as him being witty and bon-vivant. That should have pleased him. But he had been hoping for something else.

“Yeah, you know me well. What are you doing tonight?”

There was a small pause on the phone. “I’m heading out with some friends from work.”

Jughead suppressed an aggrieved sigh. That was code for ‘Brett will be there’. Brett with his swanky watch and his 300-dollar haircut. He didn’t know if 300 dollars was actually what you paid for an expensive haircut. He’d have to check in with Veronica.

_Veronica. Dress. Breas-_

He shook his head forcefully.

“Are you going for some drinks?” He felt like a retired dad asking his teenage daughter about her entourage.

“Um, we’re going to Carnegie Hall for a show.”

“Wow.  That’s amazing.” His voice sounded a little hollow in his ears.

“I wish you could be here to see it with me. It’s this great orchestra from France, you’d really enjoy it.”

“Well, I can live vicariously through you. Just write me about it and it’ll be like I was there.”

“I definitely will! Brett said he got us front row seats, but I don’t believe him and anyway, those aren’t necessarily the good seats.”

Jughead’s stomach dropped vertiginously. That Patrick Bateman knock-off would probably be sitting right next to her, sliding his arm over her seat when the lights went out.

“Listen, I have to go, our Uber is here, but I’ll call you tomorrow! I love you!”  And she hung up on him.

Jughead muttered to himself. “Yeah, I love me too.”

When he clambered back into the trailer, Veronica was standing by the bathroom mirror, applying blush. She was wearing a cream-colored dress with a tiered hem. It looked…nothing like her usual style.

“My mom’s,” she explained when she noticed him looking. “I pilfered it from her closet before I left Pembrooke. You owe me a dress, by the way.”

“Did you take anything else? From Pembrooke?”

Veronica lowered her brush. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I mean, you could have. It’s your stuff too. Listen, how much is an expensive haircut?”

“What?”

“How much would it cost, like in a fancy salon?”

Veronica smiled, hand on hip. “Are you trying to tell me you’re _finally_ doing something about that hair?”

Jughead touched his beanie self-consciously. “No. It’s for…one of my stories.”

“Hmm. Well, if your character talks about the price of his haircut on a regular basis then he’s a Nouveau Riche for sure.”

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks.”  

Before they went out the door together – FP was driving them to the speakeasy – he asked about Carnegie Hall. Had she ever been?

“Plenty of times,” she told him with a strange spark in the eye. “Daddy always took me for Christmas.”

 _Ah, hell_ , he thought, feeling bad for bringing it up.

He put his hand around her shoulder when he helped her get in the car.

 

 

Jughead was leaning over the bar, trying to follow his dad’s nimble hands as he mixed the drinks.

“Now, what you _don’t_ wanna do is pour the lime juice directly over the ice cubes,” FP was explaining. “It gives them a soggy taste.”

“Duly noted.”

“And no matter what they tell ya, vodka _can_ go bad, so it always goes on top of everything else. You slip it in at the end.”

Jughead shook his head with a smile. “You’re like an old man’s Brian Flanagan.”

“I don’t know who that is, but I take offense,” FP rasped, chewing on a mint leaf.

“Are you two talking about _Cocktail_?” Veronica zoomed in from the crowd, holding her tray against her hip. “By the way, we’re not watching that.” This she leveled at Jughead. “I refuse to sit through a movie where Tom Cruise throws bottles in the air.”

“As opposed to what? Throwing Labrador puppies?” Jughead quipped.

“Hmm, find me _that_ movie and then we can talk.” Veronica reached out and stole a slice of lime from FP’s cutting board.

The elder Serpent rolled his eyes. “Your talks sound Chinese to me.”

Veronica smiled. “I actually know a little bit of Mandarin. They had language electives at Spence. I took French, Spanish, Portuguese and a tiny dash of Mandarin. So far, I haven’t had any occasion to use it, but I can ask where the bathroom is.”

"All right. I'll bite. How do you ask for the bathroom in Mandarin?" FP asked. 

Veronica started to say something that sounded a lot like ‘sheepskin’, but FP stopped listening to her when he saw who’d entered the establishment. He could see the dark crop of hair above the crowd. He recognized the stiff posture of the moneyed man.

“Jug. Stay here with V.”

FP tossed down the towel he’d thrown over his shoulder and started marching towards the entrance.

Veronica saw her father last. She got down from the bar stool, but Jughead’s arms went quickly around her, keeping her at his side.

“Dad’s right. Confronting him right now wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“I don’t need your father fighting my battles. I’m not a coward –”

“But Hiram _is_. And cowards play dirty,” Jughead reminded her, turning her towards him. “He came here because he knew it would affect you. Don’t give him what he wants.”

He was right. Last time, Hiram hadn’t deigned to climb down into the basement. He’d talked to her briefly upstairs in the “greasy burger joint”, as he called it. Though Veronica had managed to hold her own admirably, once he was gone she’d dissolved into inconsolable tears.

Veronica blinked away the moisture. The flashing lights and the loud music were making it hard to breathe. She felt like she could hear her father’s thoughts across the room.

_You are weak, mija. You do not have the stomach for this._

“Hey, just look at me. Focus on my face.” Jughead shook her gently. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

“What?”

“Tell me what’s wrong with my face.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, give it to me, Lodge. I know you don’t like my clothes or my hair."

"....I mean, you desperately need a haircut. And a wardrobe overhaul."

"See? And the hat must be an insult to your good taste.”

Veronica heaved a sigh. “Yet you continue to prance around in it. It honestly looks like a raccoon slept in it.”

“That’s all you got?”

She inhaled sharply. “You’re way too pale. You look like the sick clone from Orphan Black.”

“...I can see that.”

“Especially from the profile, with the beanie on,” she added, considering his face more carefully. “Those morbid dark circles do nothing to dispel the image. And you’ve got chapped lips too.”

Jughead licked his lip unconsciously.

Veronica shook her head. “That won’t help. You need to use a lip balm.”

“Yeah, I’ll borrow yours.”

“In your dreams.” She wrinkled her nose, but she was vaguely amused by the notion.

Behind her, FP shoved Hiram out the door.

 

 

They were watching _Kate & Leopold_ of all things when she got the idea. What had begun as an ironic one-upmanship with _27 Dresses_ had developed into a regular habit, aka watching charming, low quality rom-coms that they could nitpick to pieces.

They had already covered the historical inaccuracies the movie propagated about the invention of the elevator and Veronica had dismissed Hugh Jackman’s flower expertise.

They were watching the scene where a random pick-pocket decided to steal Kate’s purse _in broad daylight_ in Central Park just so Leopold could chase him down and look like a hero. The scene was predictably over-the-top and hilarious. The pick-pocket looked like he hadn't been paid enough for this stunt. 

Jughead was already breaking down the absurdity of the scene when Veronica turned to him with a determined look in her eye.  

“I still have an extra key to the Pembrooke. And Smithers would let me in, so we wouldn’t have to break in. We could take a trip when my parents aren’t there. I’ll make sure to follow their schedules.”

Jughead stared at her. “I don’t know if I’m following.”

“Typical,” she shook her head. “You say you’re a Serpent, but you don’t catch on when a girl is proposing a heist.”

 

 

Calling it a heist was a bit much. The gist of the plan was “get in, grab all the stuff you can, get out”. As Jughead had put it, it was _her_ stuff too.

He’d been the seed that planted the idea in her head so he couldn’t go back on it now. And anyway, he wouldn’t let her go there alone. FP would kill him.

 

 

Smithers was delighted to see his young mistress again. His heart had nearly broken when he’d heard the news. Pembrooke just wasn’t the same without her.

“There’s no soul in it anymore. And your poor mother is inconsolable, drinks herself to sleep, though I shouldn't say –”

“Yes, I’m sure she's become an alcoholic overnight, but it can’t be helped,” Veronica replied, her tone piqued. She wasn’t going to be put off now.

Jughead stood behind her like a watchdog. He hadn’t donned the Serpent jacket tonight. He nodded to Smithers, hands in his pockets.

“And the young gentleman?” Smithers inclined his head.

“Oh, you probably already know Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third.”

“I do…but not very well, I must confess."

“Well, he’s– he’s my boyfriend now.”

The statement was followed by painful silence. Jughead tried to school his features into something resembling neutrality. He was supposed to sell it. Would’ve been nice if Veronica had freaking _warned_ him beforehand, though.

“Oh… I see,” Smithers said, scanning the boy from head to toe. “But what happened to Archibald?”

“It’s in the news, isn’t it? I can’t be seen with someone on trial for murder,” Veronica breezed on without any sentiment behind her words. “And daddy would not want me to anyway.”

“That’s true, I’m afraid. And he was such a sweet boy,” Smithers commiserated.

“Sweet, but not reliable.”

“Well, I am happy you have someone to look after you, Miss Lodge.”

“Thank you. We’re just going up to retrieve some of my clothes. We won’t be long.” And she grabbed Jughead’s arm in a proprietary fashion. He let himself be dragged towards the stairs.

“Certainly, certainly,” Smithers mumbled, looking after them sadly.

 

 

“Could you just _tell_ me these things? So we don’t get our signals crossed?” Jughead muttered as he unzipped his backpack.

“I’m sorry, I panicked. He was suspicious of you. I had to give him something.”

Veronica handed him three of her mother’s folded dresses. Jughead shoved them in the backpack.

“Careful! Those are Vera Wang. Anyway, Smithers isn’t the gossipy type. He won’t tell anyone. He wants to protect me.”

“If you say so.”

“Even if he did talk, no one would believe him anyway.”

Jughead lifted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Veronica didn’t miss a beat. “You and I are the least likely people on earth to date.”

“Is it because I look like Helena from Orphan Black?” he quipped.

Veronica laughed. “You’re being daft. I said _date_ , which means going out in public. Can you imagine us holding hands over the table at Pop’s?”

“Don’t make me queasy.”

“Precisely.”

The joke had run its gamut. They both turned away uncomfortably. Veronica started clearing her mother’s dressing table. She popped open the jewelry case.

“I think I’m going to leave her half. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“I’d say take it all. You need it more than she does. Direct action,” he said, throwing himself on the lavish queen-size bed.

She shook her head. “This isn’t Occupy Wall Street.”

“Well, we’re not pitching a tent here, so I think we’re fine.”

“We can’t take too much. We shouldn't be too conspicuous when we leave.”

Jughead shrugged. “That’s okay. I planted some of my guys down the street for back-up if Smithers doesn’t let us through.”

“Really? Your _guys_?” she drawled, hand on hip.

“Serpent king, baby,” he pointed at himself. Of course, he regretted saying that immediately. It was utterly uncool and lame. What had Tywin Lannister said in _Game of Thrones_? If you have to say it, you’re not really.

But Veronica grinned, eyes alight with mischief.

“Okay, Serpent king.” And she walked over to the bed and draped his head in diamonds and pearls. “Here’s your bounty.” 

 

 

They had stuffed their bags with as many items as could secure _Pop’s_ and the speakeasy’s bills for at least three month. Veronica was wearing two pairs of diamond necklaces under her shirt.

They were about to walk out of the suite when she paused in the hallway. She turned her head and stared at a forbidding black mahogany door to her right.

“We forgot one room.”

Jughead lowered his backpack. “Isn’t that your dad’s study? You said you don’t wanna set foot in there.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Veronica –”

“There’s a particular item in there that belongs to me.”

 

 

Jughead was both fascinated and creeped out by the portrait. The girl in the painting looked like a mix between Wednesday Addams and a Catholic school girl, and neither comparison was particularly flattering.

There was something manufactured about her pose, her smile, the golden light beaming from above on her ebony hair and dress. She looked like she was preserved in wax. It was like something out of a house of horrors. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

 _Fetish_. That was the word he’d been looking for. It was a fetishized version of Veronica.

Suddenly, Hiram Lodge’s appetites seemed far more sinister than he’d first guessed **.**

Jughead’s jaw twitched. He could imagine a younger, more vulnerable Veronica sitting down for the portrait while her father stood in the back with a cigar, smiling approvingly.

He felt a strong desire for violence. He often flew into unexpected rages and was far less conciliatory than his dad liked to think. His dark side was half-gimmick, half-truth. He didn’t feel remorse for carving Penny. He would do it again. His only regret now was not having thrown Hiram out of the speakeasy himself.

“Take it down,” Veronica instructed him tonelessly, folding her arms around her.

“Gladly,” he muttered.

The painting snapped off the wall with a drizzle of chalk and dust. There were visible cracks where the nails used to be, like broken capillaries under the skin. Jughead dragged the portrait down to the floor. He carried it to her like a fallen trophy.

Veronica touched the gilt frame with shaking fingers.

“I never thought it’s a good likeness of me.”

“It’s not,” he said, not looking at the portrait.

“I was supposed to be his guardian angel, presiding over his conscience from above. But I was just a narcissistic reminder that his little girl would always love him, no matter what he did.”

Jughead heard the bitterness in her voice, but he also heard the hard truth underneath. Veronica still loved her thankless, shitty father, deep down.

He turned the painting towards him.

“I have an idea.”

 

 

They didn’t take it with them. It would’ve been too conspicuous and they both thought it was kitschy anyway. Instead, Jughead hung it back on the wall.

Except, the doting young girl in the portrait couldn’t look down at her father anymore.

Veronica had scratched out her eyes.

 

 

Jughead drove in silence, staring straight ahead. Veronica’s nails were coated in dry paint. She rested her head against the window. Her expression was closed-off.

“How do you feel?” he finally asked, not breaking his gaze from the road.

“I’ve been better. But I’m glad we did it. Daddy will be in for a shock.”

Pembrooke was already whittling away in the distance.

Jughead nodded. “If he's smart he’ll realize he’s burned all his bridges. Maybe he’ll back off the speakeasy–”

“He won’t back off. He _hates_ losing. This will only incite him further.”

“Well. It still sends a message.”

“It does. I’m the one thing he can’t own anymore.”

Jughead glanced at her sideways. “He shouldn’t have _owned_ you in the first place.”

“It's not that simple. You don’t understand our family history,” she muttered, staring at her stained fingers. “Ownership is how daddy shows his love.”

“That’s pretty fucked up.”

“Takes one to know one,” she winked at him sardonically.

Jughead smiled. He drummed his fingers against the wheel. “So why do we love the ones who are fucked up?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, you still…Someday you might forgive your dad. You might go back to him.”

“I doubt it. There are some things you can’t undo,” Veronica argued, but even as she uttered the words, there wasn’t much solidity behind them. Reality liked to cheat us out of our convictions. Yes, some wounds would always be there, but so would Hiram.  He'd always be inside her head.

Jughead made a noise in the back of his throat. “I just…I don’t know. I feel like we’re trapped in the same cycles, bound to repeat the same mistakes, over and over, because we need it. We need that one person more than anything.”

Veronica stared at him. “Is this still about my dad?”

“Yeah, of course. Who else would it be about?”

Veronica considered the question for a moment. She sat up in her seat. “No one.”

He stole a look at her from the corner of his eye. Her profile was in shadow. She looked both vulnerable and untouchable, a rare species of plant that survived in spite of strong winds.

The untouchable part wasn’t exactly right.

A few minutes later, she placed her hand over his on the stick.

“Thank you for tonight,” she said and meant it. More than anything else. 

She wanted to pull away, but at the last moment he caught her fingers in his. Neither of them knew exactly what to do. They weren’t used to shows of affection. They were such new friends.

They looked away.

He kept driving with her hand in his. It felt small and precious and worth holding onto. 

 


End file.
